My feet

Are pirates.
My arms

Are pilots. 

My head

Is a checkout line
For daffodils. 

My lungs 

Are fine pastries

Of blue sky.
Me walking 

Like a song

Along the railroad 

Lines. 
My hands

Are roller rinks

Of sunsets. 

How can what’s finite
Fill the infinite?

What’s infinite fit
Inside the finite?  

3 thoughts on “Checkout Line”

1. Ah yes, an excellent poem asking excellent questions…

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   June 9, 2026 at 1:32 pm Reply

2. Wonderful, as usual. And I especially like the line about standing in a checkout line for daffodils. Not a bad piece to have one’s thoughts!

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   June 9, 2026 at 1:43 pm Reply

3. those last lines are like those ships surrounded by glass and there’s no way the ship coulda been stuffed inside the glass and no way the glass was built around the ship and so in the end it’s all a miracle….and the other lines of the poem are truly wonderful, to give so much life, so much varied life to describe the human body, the organs and appendages, well, it’s both brilliant and comforting to think of us as part of something so much more than blood and bones, but even that is great too, but lungs as pastries….i prefer that

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   June 9, 2026 at 3:13 pm Reply